Sunshine

Mornin' sunshine. That's what she'd say, Mani would. Ever since that moment I saw her in the window of that boutique, as though she were on display. Her curves were perfect, cut out of a mold; she had long slender limbs, and her skin was flawlessly smooth. Pygmalion himself couldn't have produced a more desirable body. I knew I had to have her. The way she would pose and model with such poise, and her sense of fashion, too. Though, in honesty, I cared more for the fashion of her anatomy.

It took much courage and determination, but I knew I had to make her mine. So I returned later that night to convince her to come with me. There was much yelling and some commotion because she was still at work, and her employers had no intention of allowing her to leave before her work was through, but I made a most compelling case. In our haste, I realized she wore a wig; it had fallen off as we charged madly toward the door, Mani clutched under might right arm like a football, when the wig jostled itself free from her head. She was mortified, to have her secret revealed in such a hurried and unintentional way, but to me she became even more beautiful. The ever so slight loss of grace, that tender vulnerability in her eyes, it humanized her, made her less like a goddess and more like girl.

That was a year ago this May. Things have not been so copacetic between us as of late, and I fear she resents me. Up until this point we adored one another. We shared the deepest affections. We would cook together, and dance, lie in bed and talk about the possibility of intelligent life in the universe. I had bought her an assortment of beautiful, elegant wigs with which to adorn her beautiful head. Her favorite actress was Kim Cattrall, and she loved nothing more than to situate herself in front of a window, basking in the sun, being admired by the passerby's. Soon though, I began to worry about how much time she spent in the window. Surely that much exposure to the sun's rays couldn't be good for her skin. And the expressions on the faces of those who passed were not always smiling and pleasantly surprised, they were sometimes mean or fearful or disgusted by her ensembles.

It was around this time that we had become sexually intimate, and she would stand in front of the window wearing only panties, or a bra, or sometimes a see-through nightie. Sometimes, after we made love she would ask me why I never took her anywhere. She never understood how modest my income was; the most trifling purchases to her where serious indulgences to me; she had expensive taste. At night, while she slept, I would often remain awake, unable to sleep; thoughts of being incapable of pleasing her, of being unfit to keep her satisfied and happy plagued my tired mind, turned them into nightmares. Once, I dreamt she ran off with some affluent young man that had seen her standing in the window. He had a beard and brilliant blue eyes. Sleepless nights made me irritable and crass in my dealings with her. All I wanted after I came home from a long day of work at the factory was to feel loved, wanted. But I would arrive and find her standing in the same spot I had left her, the house a mess, not a backward glance or a word from her.

She'd become cold and hard and what little pleasantries we did share together began to dissolve. On an especially bad day, when I had come home late from work, I found her lying in bed. She looked ill, slightly purple. She told me she was fine, that she was exhausted from exercise. She invited me to bed and inveigled me out of my pants with lust-filled eyes, coaxing it out sensuously with her practiced hands. I mounted her and began pumping into her, being absolved by her, when her face changed. She wore a cold unexpressive smile and told me I would never be able to satisfy her, not like he could. The words pained me deeply, and I lost all desire for sex. I left the bedroom and went into the bathroom, thinking a shower might help. Of all the things she could've said to me, this was the worst. My deepest fear and insecurity had been made real - a nightmare brought to life. How could I look at her again, or share anything with her now; how could I trust her? Standing in the shower I felt sick, like I would throw up. I didn't want to think about any thing. I imagined that as long as the water was on, I was safe in temporary exile from the hardness of reality. The warm, soft heat ran down my skin and did not resist me; it was kind, and gentle. After some time, the water began to grow cold and my skin grew soggy.

I looked down at my hands and there was something wrong with them. They had the white calloused patchwork of plaster and looked blistered and bruised. In the mirror my eyes were bloodshot and tired. The mirror itself was filthy, full of soapscum and toothpaste, and the surrounding area was mottled with aged stubble that had been sheared from someone's face. Not my own. Ever since I was a boy I was never able to grow a beard, and I shaved very infrequently because of this. This hair was not my own. I inspected the room more carefully and found more evidence of an intruder: an empty bottle of a cologne I'd never seen, the smell of an unfamiliar soap, Old Spice moisturizer. These were not my own. I'll be damned if someone is going to come into my house and make a cuckold out of me. Leaving these things here that are not my own. Telling me that my woman is not my own. That my own sense of myself is not my own.

I rip open the bathroom door and stare at her savagely. She knows. It excites her. You've seen his toiletries, she says wryly. I trudge toward her, my rage makes my steps mechanical, wearing down on my heels like lead. The blood sleds through the slopes inside my icy veins, squealing past the drum in my inner ear. With licentious fury I latch onto her leg and yank it from the socket at her knee. I do the same to the other one. She doesn't make a sound. No more standing in the window, I shout. Though this satisfies me, I realize it won't be enough. I can see it in her face, mocking me. This won't stop me, she seems to say. Then it hits me: it's over. I'll treat her the way she wants to be treated, then; like trash. I take her in my arms and pull her torso from her abdomen. It dislocates with a hollow pop, like a champagne cork. Somehow, in this moment, she looks more beautiful than ever before. But I cannot - will not - fall for her allure this time. The feeling that I am making a mistake washes over me, and I wave it away. It is only the fear of change, of loneliness. As I grab her bust she grabs onto me; wrapping her arms around me she squeezes me tightly and says she's sorry. She is sincere but it is too late - our love has been dismantled. I drag her out to the street, the neighbors stare, and I toss her into the gutter.

Her anus looks incredibly small. I wonder how I ever fit inside it.